Aurora 2021 Mag

Lydia Ingram

Claymore

There is a doorway I know I should avoid It’s part of a hallway always dimly lit Never ominous, but not at all inviting

Warm enough to remind me that I’m cold The door frame is old, weathered wood Paint past its prime but still with charm An ornate old knob badly in need of polishing But affectionately antiqued Sometimes I walk briskly past and other times I slow my steps just long enough to sense that I shouldn’t And when I’m feeling angry, destructive, and wet I run to the door and grip the knob with full willful abandon There is nothing in the air except everything Particles of dust, shed skin, and some sympathy That don’t quite shimmer in the light somehow pouring in From a large, arched window I will never open Spinning, suspended from a ceiling whose height doesn’t matter Are images that catch and throw refractions and reflections Hanging from strands of fate that aren’t gold or red But transparent as fishing line, twice as baited An imposing brow line furrows, then lifts when it sees me I can see the corners of a mouth held stone-walled Curling gently, softly, before it’s lost to mischievous air

A pumpkin at midnight and a change of clothes Away, away—they change course and spin away! A flag. A flask. Something knit or crocheted— For Heaven’s sake! How many days

And ways would I pay to play With these whirligigs of you?

Because this is where you live, at least, this is what’s left Of a lifetime, this lifetime, and fragments of the others Where we accidentally sought one another

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